Desk Duty
by Joanne Barcia
Summary: "Seeley Booth has had his fair share of desk duty periods over the years, but this is the very first time he has truly had to sentence another to that same, cruel fate." Alternate ending (of course) to the season premiere.


**A/N: I have elected to ignore those episodes. They didn't happen. This happened instead (except this particular oneshot is set about two months after the premiere). I've also got another alternate ending to that episode being written, probably a two- or threeshot. And, since there have been questions, I_ am _still working on What You Own. My updates don't exactly show it, but I've put too much work into that story to quit now, haha. But that's enough about that. Enjoy this oneshot, and don't forget to leave a review!  
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The walls start closing in on him around two o'clock.

In the absence of patients to treat or suspects to interview, all he is really left to do is pour over case files and simmer. And, in all truth – boredom is not a good color on Lance Sweets. He is among the highest ranked psychologists and profilers in the bureau, easily able to navigate his way around just about every corner of the human psyche, but the fact remains the same; for all his mental fortitude, he just didn't _do _bored.

So, in the event that it is forced, boredom tends to manifest itself in jittering limbs, pencil tapping, doodling in the margins of his notes. And, of course, a newfound, ever-classic pastime: bugging the absolute crap out of Seeley Booth. It is, for all intents and purposes, unintentional. Why in the world would he actively _choose_ to provoke his admittedly very-scary-when-he-wants-to-be agent of a friend? A sense of self-preservation would normally hold him back. Today, however, boredom wins out – and so, he finds himself walking for the thousandth time that day into Booth's office. Before he can say a word, however, Booth beats him to it.

"No, Sweets, there have not been any new developments in the case in the last twenty minutes. I swear, if there's anything interesting, you'll be the first one I'll call. I promise."

And the psychologist heaves a heavy – if a tad dramatic – sigh, throwing his head back for the briefest moment.

"You're _sure?"_ he asks yet again. He's nothing if not persistent. "Absolutely _nothing_ came in from the lab?"

Booth's definitive shake of his head is nearly enough to drive him stir-crazy all on its own.

"Come on, seriously? I swear, I'm honestly tempted to suggest the victim's infant daughter as a suspect, just for something new to work on. Give me enough time, and I could probably think of some psycho-bullshit to back it up, too."

This earns a quiet laugh from the older agent, and a warm, "I'm sure you could."

Just as Booth is about to say more, though, his computer starts humming the telltale tune of a Skype call, and it takes every last bit of Sweets' willpower not to yell, "Hallelujah!" at the sound of it.

Instead, all he does is drag his feet until he's standing just behind Booth, looking over his shoulder at a blurred pixel image of Cam, who smiles before briefing the two of them. Two of the suspects, she explains, seem to have an equal chance of being the killer. According to the lab, the murder weapon was a round, blunt object. And each main suspect – one being a gardener, the other a lower level baseball player – has a fair chance of having it.

Booth has his course of action immediately.

"Alright. I'll head over to the greenhouse today, see if I can catch Hinton before he leaves. If he's not our guy, I'll go visit Minnelli tomorrow."

Cam only nods as the agent ends the call.

And Sweets is on him in the same second.

"You know, Booth," the psychologist says, excited words tangling together. "I _could_ go talk to Minnelli if you want. That way we could –"

"Nice try, Sweets, but you know that's not happening."

There is a long, frustrated sigh, and the agent can't help but smile just a touch at the sight of it. Seeley Booth has had his fair share of desk duty periods over the years, but this is the very first time he has truly had to sentence another to that same, cruel fate. It's nearly enjoyable; or, rather, it would be, if the boredom rolling off Sweets' shoulders were not so palpable.

"Come on, I –"

"Look, if you think I'm about to send you by yourself to talk to one of two possible killers, you're crazy."

It's a fair point. So Sweets concedes.

"Fine. Then how about I go with you to the greenhouse? By your reasoning, you're still going to be talking to a probable killer, and it wouldn't hurt to have another person around."

"That," Booth announces, "is exactly why Bones is coming with me. You're on desk duty, no way around it. Sorry."

And when it looks like Sweets is about to argue further, Booth will have absolutely none of it.

"No, you're staying here. In case you've forgotten, you're _still_ pretty banged up from the last time you went to get evidence alone. You don't just get over that in two months."

Now _that_ nearly quiets the psychologist, who just looks down at the sling supporting his arm and the unfortunately clunky boot he is forced to wear in lieu of a left shoe. His ribs ache just slightly at the memory – or maybe just at the gentle hand Booth swats against his side. Carefully, he lifts his head and gives it one last try, his voice quiet and slow.

"Well… look, I can walk. I can still talk and use my head, right? Seriously, I really could talk to the guy with you, no problem."

And Booth lets out a sigh that's nearly as full of frustration as Sweets', running a tired hand over his face.

"Alright, let me rephrase that. Maybe _you _can get over that in two months."

The agent gets no response other than a confused expression on the psychologist's face and a tilt of his head. The sudden silence stretches on for miles, daunting in its uncertainty. There's the slightest hint of shakiness in Booth's voice as he continues, but it disappears by the end of his question.

"Did Daisy ever tell you that you were on life support for two days?"

And Sweets, he doesn't say anything at first. He simply purses his lips and drops his head down, letting the words bounce of the insides of his ears.

"No," he answers after a small eternity, his tone full of realization. "No, she, uh… she didn't want to talk about it."

Gone is any trace of the amusement that was on Booth's face just moments ago. It's been replaced by the serious demeanor of a man who is resolute in keeping his friend here, the mask glued over the fear of losing him. Fear, however, is fluid. One way or another, it will poke out of the cracks of anything that dares to contain it. This is no exception.

"Well, you were."

Booth can only nod at the psychologist in front of him, who is no longer looking at the agent, but the wall behind his back. They're in a sort of stand-off now – a silent battle of thinly veiled fear and quiet nerves. The winner is unclear; the knowledge of who has to back down, however – not so much. It would take an inane lack of sensitivity and self-preservation to continue this.

"Right…" Sweets looks up at the older agent, an apology written on his face. "Right. Well, uh… I guess I'll go… back to my office. Look back over both suspects' profiles, see if I can get anything more out of them…. Right…."

And he ducks his head down as he goes to leave – and is stopped just before he can pass through the doorframe by a few more words from Booth.

"Hang on, Sweets," the agent says, prompting the other man to turn around to face him, all furrowed eyebrows and confused eyes. "I'm just curious; when do you get those casts off?"

The psychologist looks down at himself once more before answering, "I can stop wearing the boot in about two weeks, and the sling comes off in three."

And, after a moment of consideration, Booth nods.

"Alright. Schedule your gun recertification test for around then, and let me know when it is. We'll test you… and _then_ talk about going back into the field. Okay?"

The first genuine smile Booth has seen the psychologist make all week spreads across his face as he nods, his, "Yeah, sure thing! Of course," barely intelligible through his teeth. The "Thank you!" is certainly not missed, however, as Sweets finally turns and goes to return to his office, leaving Booth alone with his own gun set up in its holster, his car keys in his hand, and a strange feeling of contentment as he sets off for the Jeffersonian. He's already counting down the days until those casts come off – but whether it's with excitement or stress, he can't exactly say. But for now, the former will just have to do.


End file.
